


baby, when I'm finished with you

by highoctane



Category: Polygon/McElroy Vlogs & Podcasts RPF
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Feelings, First Time, Hook-Up, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Mature Competent Professional Gays, Safer Sex, alcohol use, just so many feelings you guys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-24
Updated: 2019-06-24
Packaged: 2020-05-18 18:57:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19340602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/highoctane/pseuds/highoctane
Summary: Buttoned down from work and in his element, the new guy's the most surprisingly beautiful person Pat's ever laid eyes on. People like Pat don't have a chance with people like Brian, or so he thinks.He'd be mistaken, on that one.





	baby, when I'm finished with you

**Author's Note:**

> IT'S OVER NINE THOUSAAAAAND
> 
> There are three thousand words of set-up, and the rest is explicit Fuckin' and Feelin'. Don't say I never got you nothing.
> 
> If your names are in the tags: you're welcome for making you good at sex. If you disagree, you're cordially invited to come over here and prove me wrong.
> 
> With love to gng4gu, again, for their enthusiastic hand-holding as I despaired when this dirty little hook-up-at-the-club fic kept taking a turn for the emotional. We'll get there, folks.

It's not Pat's scene, the whole 'going out after work hours to stand around a loud, dimly lit room and shout at your coworkers while drinking overpriced beer' scene. But Brian's just finished his first week, and he kind of likes the guy, and everyone wanted to do something to celebrate.

Besides, it's Friday night, and he remembers a time when that meant something other than going home to his cat, drinking exactly one beer, and falling asleep with his laptop open and his dick in his hand. Sometimes, you gotta pick the devil you don't know, because the one you do know is so bored of your shit it didn't even show up for work.

So here he is: holding down a table, no chairs, at the edge of a dancefloor at the bottom of a flight of stairs, under a bar somewhere in Brooklyn. It's the kind of place that the younger producers seem to have some sort of instinctual knowledge of, a sixth sense for relentlessly cool places where the music is loud and the lights are on strings and there's like eighty people, maximum, but they're all young and beautiful. _Influencers_. Like models, except they're probably students, or interns at companies that are all about subverting traditional business models—like paying their interns.

Pat's got a beer in his hand. Pat's had a beer in his hand for the last half hour, and he's not drinking it because if he drinks it, he'll finish it, and then he'll have to go upstairs and find the bar again, and Pat likes beer but he's already done the stairs once, and also he's seen the wall _behind_ the bar and he just doesn't need that much _choice_ in his life.

Brian's in his element here, though. It's kind of surprising, actually—Pat wasn't anywhere near the hiring committee, but once it was pretty set that he was the top pick, Brian’s audition video had started covertly making the rounds at the office, and what Pat remembers thinking was _wow, look at this little dweeb_. Simone had shown him something from Brian's YouTube channel, his first viral video, and even his sense of humour is dweeby. Surrealist. Pat's not one to talk, obviously, and he thinks it with affection—like knows like, after all. It's just that Brian hadn't exactly proven himself otherwise, not in his first week. He's brilliant, though, and hard-working; sweet-voiced; so eager to please. 

So what he's thinking is: Brian's not the type Pat would have expected to have unbuttoned his white dress shirt down to the breastbone in a room pulsing with electric night, a gifted joint rolled up behind his ear, and two twin splashes of glitter across his cheekbones, glinting in the mason jar lamplight. Allegra's, probably, or maybe his. Pat doesn't judge.

Brian's fingernails are painted blue, chipped at the edges, and Pat watches his hands as they gesture wildly in conversation with that side of the table, at Allegra and Clayton laughing uproariously at whatever he's saying. Pat can't make out his words from underneath the heavy bass rolling through the basement like an overturned bowl pressing down on his senses, not from three feet away. He catches every third word, and smiles at the right places like he's listening, because he's always been socially awkward but he doesn't want to be the scowling elder at Brian's welcome party.

It's _really_ not Pat's scene, though. Crowds, sure; give him a metal show in a dank basement like this one, or an amateur wrestling cage match, and he's comfortable. Kind of likes getting swept away in the energy of a mob, honestly. Something about these kinds of places always puts his teeth on edge, though, like he's a time traveler returned just a few years too late to call himself truly _home_.

He doesn't recognize the band, but it's something that straddles the line between, like, punk and bluegrass, maybe? Brian probably knows—one thing he'd learned this week is that Brian _knows_ music, way better than he knows video games. But, it's loud and energetic and compelling, a winning combination for any dancefloor—and this one is roiling with people, including most everyone they'd come with, plus a few of Brian's friends who’d met them here. Roommates, maybe? He hadn't really caught the introductions.

Pat watches as Simone materializes from the throng and sidles up to the table, throwing her arms around Allegra, yelling in her ear. Allegra laughs and lets herself be led onto the dancefloor, pulling Clayton along behind, and then it's just Pat and Brian at the table still. Brian shoots him a smile and sidles around the table, angling himself so he's in Pat's space, all five hundred miles of his slender body canted towards him. He's got both elbows on the table behind him and one long-fingered hand on a bottle of beer, and his neck is one elegant line all the way down to his sharp collarbones as he tilts his head into speaking distance.

 _Jesus, Patrick, get it together,_ Pat admonishes himself, taking a swig of his beer to counteract the way his face lights up like it's on fire. _He's a coworker, for Christ's sake_.

"You don't dance?" Brian asks, pitching his voice over the bass. 

Pat shrugs. "Sometimes. Not usually to this," he answers, truthfully.

Brian tips his head even farther. "Oh, yeah? What's it take?"

"Louder, faster, darker, more bouncing up and down," Pat says, indicating the band and dancefloor. "Drunker," he adds, indicating his beer.

Brian's nose scrunches up when he's thinking. "Metal?"

Pat tips the neck of his bottle to Brian, then takes a sip. "Got it in one."

"You look the type," Brian says. His eyes travel up and down Pat's body, both friendly and a little—a little something Pat didn't expect, really. Something searching: _are you like me?_ Pat's familiar with the beginning of this dance—he doesn't make a big deal about who he sleeps with, doesn't really go out of his way to flag himself, so people are always trying to get a read on him. It makes him squirm, a little, from the way Brian's so _open_ about it, taking in Pat with a smile in his eyes that never crosses over into a clear proposition, but makes Pat feel hot all over anyway.

"What about you?" Pat asks.

Brian shrugs: a slow, lingering thing. "I like a little of everything," he replies.

Something prickles up the back of Pat's arms, and he takes a gulp of his beer because it takes everything in him not to respond with innuendo, not to _yes-and_ his way into the fun kind of trouble. Save that for at least when he's out of his probationary period, Patrick Gill. If ever. He's been flirting with the ladies all night. It doesn't mean anything.

"I like your glitter," Pat says, instead, groping for the next easiest thing to say that'll keep Brian in his orbit, because selfishly he wants _this_ Brian close to him for a while longer: not the painfully earnest, visibly overwhelmed fresh-faced wunderkind who's been shadowing him all week, but this sparkling, smiling, unbuttoned creature who's warm all down Pat's side and who looks at Pat like he's the only person in the crowded room.

"It's all natural, _bay-bee_ ," Brian croons, fluttering his painted nails at his face, and laughs. "Here, take some."

Brian's hand on his wrist is hot, something Pat almost misses in the surprise of Brian pulling Pat's hand to his face. He rubs his cheek on the inside of Pat's wrist, like a cat, transferring some of the glitter to Pat's skin. _What the fuck are you, Gilbert_ , Pat's brain spits out as Brian releases him, gesturing to Pat's dumbstruck face.

"Go on, do your thing," Brian says, smiling into a sip of his beer.

Pat hesitates, then rubs the glitter on his cheekbones—and some on his hair, by necessity—and finds himself returning the smile with a helplessness that surprises him. Well, _fuck_. 

—

They end up talking for what's probably only ten minutes but feels like longer: easy conversation that runs the gamut from how they both ended up working at Polygon, to what kinds of videos Brian wants to make with his fancy degrees, to Brian's surprisingly political treatise on why everyone on the internet's suddenly so openly horny for monsters. Brian's disastrously easy to talk to, and easier to make laugh, even with the pounding music between them, and he doesn't shy away from getting in Pat's space while he's doing it.

Brian’s a toucher, he realizes quickly. He’ll punctuate a story with his fingers tapping on Pat’s arm—laugh with his whole body, leaning on Pat’s shoulder so Pat can feel the trill of his delight vibrate through his body. No one’s touched Pat so freely in—months, probably.

They're in the middle of riffing back and forth on VR headsets when someone Pat thinks he recognizes from the 'introductions' phase of the night appears at Brian's side. He's got like half a foot on Brian in every direction, easily, and he rests one hand possessively on Brian's hip as he subtly angles his big body between the two of them. Pat instinctually takes a step back. Brian, on the other hand, makes a happy noise and leans in to take a pull from the straw of the electric blue cocktail in the man's other hand.

"Hey," the man says to Brian, barely gracing Pat with a look, "I was looking for you. Did you want to come dance?"

Brian's gigawatt smile turns from Pat to this new man, and he pats him fondly on the chest. "No, I'm good, Jojo—thank you, though," he says, then indicates Pat by putting a hand on his bicep. "You've met? Jonah, Patrick; Pat, Jonah."

The man—Jonah—nods at Pat, giving him a solemn once-over. "Alright," he scoffs, then leans in to say something into Brian's ear that makes him dissolve into giggles. Pat—oh, Pat gets it, _of course_ —awkwardly drains the last drops from his bottle while trying not to feel too much like a third wheel.

Jonah leaves, winding his way back into the crowd, and Pat clears his throat. "Is that your boyfriend?" he asks, because that's what you do.

Brian, who'd turned to watch Jonah's broad back disappearing into the crowd, whips back around to laugh and sidle closer. He's holding Jonah's cocktail now. It matches his nails. "Oh, no. No, no no, Patrick," he says, "Jonah's my best friend. He just does the thing, you know, where if someone's been flirting with me for a while, he comes over and plays the big mean boyfriend card. You know, in case I need a reason to jet."

Pat feels his eyebrows shoot up to his hairline. "F-flirting," he laughs, visions of being pulled into HR on Monday dancing in his mind's eye, "Me? Oh, no, not—"

He kills the rest of that sentence when Brian tilts his head and fixes him with a _look_ , a raised-eyebrow, mischievous-smile sort of look that dries the rest of the words in Pat's mouth. He swallows. "Have I been flirting?"

He has been. He definitely has been. It'd be madness—absolute dumbfuckery—to not lean in to Brian's presence, to not respond in kind, and Patrick's a strong man, but not that strong. Not when he doesn't want to be strong in the first place.

God Almighty, Brian's neck is long when he leans back to look at Pat down the bridge of his nose, his eyes heavy-lidded and smiling still. He looks like a car crash Pat doesn't know how to avoid. Brian holds eye contact for a long time, long enough that Pat feels his whole body go hot and prickling with confused adrenaline under the butterfly-pinning precision of Brian's full attention.

"Heck, Pat Gill, I hope you are," Brian says, easily, "because I sure have been."

Pat's face must go on a real journey. It's just, it’s been a real long time since he's been the target of someone like Brian, that's for sure. He's gotten used to being the one doing the—god, the _seducing_ ; Brian is _seducing_ him, what the fuck. Pat can almost feel the weight of Brian's gaze drop from his eyes to his mouth and back again, like a caress. 

Like the poem, Pat considers the hairpin turn of his night and chooses a side. "Alright," he says, putting his empty bottle on the table with a solid _clunk_. "Let's dance."

Brian downs the rest of Jonah's drink and smiles, clearly satisfied with himself, as he takes Pat's hand and leads him onto the pulsing dancefloor.

—

Mercifully, the band's reached some sort of climax to their set, and the music is almost something Pat knows how to dance to. It's a little twangier than he's familiar with, but it's got a driving, folksy beat that rumbles deep in the part of Pat that houses every human urge to dance. He and Brian join the mob of people stomping and wheeling around on the dancefloor. They squeeze past Simone, who shrieks good-naturedly when she sees Pat before Brian pulls him deeper and he loses her in the crowd.

They're something close to right in the middle of the floor when Brian stops and turns to face Patrick again. The swaying fairy lights overhead cast his glittered cheekbones with all sorts of interesting reflections, sparkling in a light that turns him gold and honey, like a nymph stepped straight out of a cornfield.

There's just enough room to dance, but not enough to get any meaningful distance from each other; Brian's knees slot between Pat's as he finds the beat immediately. Pat realizes immediately that Brian's not just a dancer, he's a _good_ dancer, because he doesn't just hare off right into his own groove; he starts slow, eyes on Pat's body so he can mirror him, a simple jostling shuffle as Pat takes longer to orient himself in a crowd.

It's been a while since Pat danced in a way that didn't involve forcible elbows, but Brian projects patience with his whole body as Pat catches up. The overall motion of the dancefloor is less sexy wiggling and more stomping and bouncing, and that suits him just fine, honestly; god, he doesn't know what he'd do if this was a Top 40 Club Remixes kind of place. Probably still follow Brian's lead, honestly, because Pat's rewarded for it by Brian looping his fingers through Pat's belt loops, tethering him like an astronaut to his life support.

Brian must be able to dance to anything, Pat thinks, as Brian starts to really move. He really—he really throws himself into the music, all the foot-stomping free-wheeling thrum of it, a full-body transfer of energy into motion. It's surprisingly easy to follow along, especially with the heat of Brian's hands almost on him, pulling him around, guiding him.

In motion, god, Brian's even more devastatingly beautiful. Just, wholly in his element: laughing, cheering, catching the wildly swinging lights in his glitter and in his eyes and in his smile. Brian pulls him closer and embraces him in a loose dancing frame, taking Pat's hand in the leading position, and starts wheeling them around their tiny circle of dancefloor.

Pat trips, often—and laughs—and leans against Brian when he needs, thrilled when Brian holds him up.

"I've got you," Brian leans in to say, right in his ear. Pat can feel his breath on his skin, can smell the end-of-day scent of him in his hair as Brian's words make him suck in a surprised breath. _You sure fucking do_.

There's an awful lot of whirling and quick footwork, moving as one as the band continues on through the climax of their set, all driving beat and long, throat-curdling vocals that the rest of the people on the dancefloor, including Brian, holler along to. It's one of those moments, you know, where the music is good and your body is cooperating and you're not thinking about work or bills or grocery shopping—just the crush of humanity on all sides, subsuming you into the joyous whole. One bright person in front of you, anchoring you, pulling you along into a night full of possibility.

Brian slips the hand on Pat's waist up under his shirt, and his open hand splayed over Pat's naked skin is as hot as a brand, and he doesn't let go, not for anything. Just holds on to Pat like he's found something he wants to keep, as they dip and weave through the crowd of hot bodies.

Pat's lungs start to burn with exertion just as he realizes his face aches from smiling. Brian's laughing as he pulls Pat closer, until there's not even a polite distance between their bodies; Brian's body is heaving against Pat's—Pat's sure he's not much better. This close, Brian's face takes up his whole vision: huge eyes, red-cheeked, dewy under the lights. His mouth is open and wet.

Brian catches him looking and licks his lips, catching the bottom one in his teeth as he looks up at Pat. "Let's _go_ ," he says, accentuating what he means by tugging Pat even closer by the beltloop, until he's almost straddling Brian's thigh. Right there on the—right there on the dancefloor, ignored by everyone except God as the fucking bluegrass punk rock swells and roars around them. And Pat's not—he's not a _teenager_ , he's not _hard_ , but he fuckin' _feels it_ anyway— 

Pat's no seer, but he can read road signs. Brian's head cants at just the right angle, reading him like a book as Pat dips his head and kisses him. He can feel Brian's smile against his lips, the warm huff of breath as he laughs through his nose; can sense more than hear the rumble he makes in his throat when Pat flicks his tongue into his mouth. He tastes like beer and salt, and Pat—Pat wants to devour him. He wants to get all his clothes off and taste the rest of him.

The band's still playing when they leave.

—

On the sidewalk, Brian slips one hand into Pat's back pocket, and Pat slings his other arm around Brian's shoulder as they both pull up ridesharing apps. "Where to?" Pat asks.

Brian frowns and lets his phone drop. "I live with my _sister_ ," he mutters, as if himself just remembering.

Pat laughs and kisses the top of Brian's head as he slips his own phone back in his pocket. "Mine, then. Come on, it's faster by train and it's fucking freezing out here."

—

Neither Brian nor Pat are native New Yorkers, but Pat likes to think he shares a certain cultural kinship with the people who pointedly ignore them as they make out on the G line. New Yorkers just don't give a fuck. He respects that.

He appreciates it, too, because Brian's _handsy_. When they get on the train, the first thing Brian does is steer them into a corner so Pat can lean over him and afford them a very thin veneer of privacy. Brian's hand on his neck is firm as he pulls him down, kisses him messily and smiling. It's only Pat's jacket that keeps him decent as Brian's other hand slithers up his shirt again, pressing his fingerprints into Pat's skin, skating over his ribs.

They stumble out of the subway into the frigid December air, only parting because the sudden temperature change makes them both curse and stomp their feet, shoving hands into pockets and turning their shoulders into the wind that whips down the street. Pat leads the way; it's less than a five minute walk, faster with sufficient motivation.

He pauses in the honey-spilled light of the twenty-four hour bodega opposite his apartment. "Wait," he says, and Brian stops up behind him. "Are we—" he says, and breathes a cloud into the space between them as he considers his words. "What's on the table, here? Are we, uh, gonna need condoms? 'cause I don't have any."

Brian's eyes wrinkle when he smiles, and takes the chance to pull Pat down by the collar of his coat and lay a kiss on him that answers for him.

—

It's a short scurry to Pat's from the bodega, up a few flights of stairs, until Pat's putting the key in his lock. "Jeez, I think it was starting to snow—" is as far as he gets before Brian crowds him through the unlocked door and into the warmth of Pat's apartment. His teeth are still chattering when he pulls Pat down to kiss him again.

"Easy, _easy_ , hah," Pat laughs as their teeth clink together. Brian snorts dismissively and puts both frigid hands on Pat's face to keep kissing him, backing up until Pat's got him against the door. His mouth is hot where everything else is cold, from his fingertips to the tip of his nose.

Brian kisses like… well, Pat realizes with a jolt, he kisses like he's done everything else this week: with his whole self, whether he knows what he's doing or not; with sweet abandon; with the same keen observing eye he's had trained on Pat for days. He's experimental, plying Pat with different kinds of kisses as they wiggle out of their coats and scarves, figuring out the ones that make Pat sigh, or groan, or push Brian harder against the door. He's _thorough_.

Brian jumps when Pat untucks his shirt from his slacks and slides his hand up his side. "Hell, Pat," he hisses, "cold, cold, _cold_ —"

Pat tries to take his hand away, but Brian grabs him by the wrist and holds him there, writhing in place instead of pulling away as warmth seeps from his core into Pat. His kisses turn biting before going sweet again, and Pat can hazard sliding his now-warm hand upwards to untouched skin.

"You like being uncomfortable, or what?" Pat breathes into Brian's mouth. He curls his fingers and skates his fingernails down Brian's ribs.

"I like—feeling something—" Brian answers, between kisses. He starts in on Pat's shirt buttons. "Why do it if you're not gonna feel all of it?"

Pat can't fault Brian's zeal. He unbuttons Brian's shirt too, kissing and sucking at the skin exposed down the side of Brian's neck as he does, and Brian breathes out heavily and thunks his head against the door. Pat can feel his legs shifting against Pat's, toeing off his Converse without looking.

When they've both shucked their shirts, Pat realizes Brian's a lot more built than he looks, under his clothes. Pat pulls back, just to look, and feels the weight of Brian's gaze on him as he does the same. He expected Brian to be twiggy, with all that slender grace, but he's shaped entirely like a dancer: all lithe muscle, broad-shouldered, a thick core that heaves with Brian's breathing. He looks debauched already: flushed, his lips wet and red from Pat's greedy mouth. The sight of him—half cherub, half incubus—god, it does something to Patrick that he hasn't felt outside of his fantasies for some time. 

Brian must also see something he likes in Pat's body, because he makes a hungry noise and grabs Pat by the belt buckle, pushing him back until he can press his mouth to Pat's collarbone. Pat can feel teeth scraping against his skin as Brian blindly bullies him back into the apartment. Pat clips a corner and laughs, trying to steer Brian as he sucks a bruise into the side of Pat's neck. "Everyone's gonna fuckin' see that, Brian," he admonishes, as Pat works the handle to his bedroom and they nearly topple in together.

"D'you care?"

"I mean—I mean, yeah," Pat starts. The backs of his knees hit his bed and momentum carries him the rest of the way, sitting down heavily as Brian stands between his splayed legs. The bag with the condoms and lube slips off his wrist. "We—we work together, shouldn't we be, uh, discreet?"

Brian remains standing, looking down at Pat with a confused expression as he wipes his red mouth with the back of his hand. The blue light from the streetlights outside makes the rest of him glow, ethereal. Pat swallows and continues: "Aren't you worried about what people will say?"

Brian's eyes narrow as he smirks. "You gonna tell on me, Pat?"

"N-no," Pat stammers, catching Brian's hands as he straddles Pat's lap. "Of course not, I wouldn't—I wouldn't do you like that. This isn't…" he trails off as Brian leans in to continue his good work on the bruise blossoming on Pat's neck. "Hold up, like, wait. Wait a second."

Brian groans in frustration as he sits back on Pat's thighs, his knees splayed wide. Pat practically doesn't have to look down to see how Brian's straining against the front of his chinos. "This isn't, like—" Pat struggles to find the least offensive way to phrase the question he has to ask. "You wanna do this, right? You don't wanna hook up because, like, you think if you don't I'll make it hard for you at—"

"Patrick Gill," Brian deadpans, "If you finish that sentence I will leave."

"Okay," Pat replies, sighing. Brian lets him finish his thought, patiently. "Alright. I just—I don't wanna be another industry shithead, you know?"

Brian shoots him a sympathetic look and leans in to kiss him again, a long, slow thing that eventually pushes Pat back onto the bed, Brian sprawled out over him.

"I promise you," Brian says, breaking for air, "I am definitely all about sucking your dick." He kisses Pat's stubbly chin, scraping his own smooth cheek against him as he moves downward, kissing down Pat's neck, down his chest. His hands work at unbuckling Pat's belt. "And after that, I’m gonna… hmm..." He pulls back to prop himself on his hands. "How do you like it, anyway," he asks.

Pat's brain does a sort of stutter-step, because while he's fucked and been fucked in all sorts of configurations, some a _lot_ more than others, the question always throws him. People usually assume. "I..." he starts, and laughs, "I, uh, well, I usually sleep with women, so I mean, I'm just used to being on top, I guess? It's fine."

Brian's hands still on his belt buckle. "You've slept with men before, right," he asks.

"Oh, hell yeah," Pat reassures him. He shifts upwards a bit, swinging his legs up so that Brian can crawl his whole body onto the bed. "I've even, uh, bottomed before. I kind of like it more, it's just," he gestures to himself, "People usually expect me to be on top, so… it's fine, really, I can go either way."

" _You can go either_ …" Brian mutters, then launches himself up to pin Pat down by the shoulders, "That's a _tragedy_ , Pat Gill."

Pat laughs. "You, uh... you got a preference?"

Brian puts his hand on his chest like he's swearing an oath. "For you, Patrick, it's not a preference. It's a higher calling."

Patrick throws back his head and laughs; who is this viral video _motherfucker_ , this wide-eyed ingenue, this insatiable walking shitpost with the angelic face and the dirty mouth? It's halfway to a bad idea and all the way into a memorable one already, and they haven't even taken their pants off yet. 

When Pat's done and wiping tears of laughter from his eyes, Brian's moved so he's perched on Pat's lap: hands on his chest, straight-armed and bow-backed, smirking like a pin-up. Pat sobers quickly after that, feeling his humour transmute in his gut to something more urgent. "Yeah, alright," he says, "do your worst."

Brian _beams_ , shuffling back so he can whip Pat's belt from its loops. Pat feels it like a dull ache when Brian palms him through his jeans, and his hips jerk of their own volition. He doesn't want to think about how long it's been since someone touched him like this, but it's been a long time, and the anticipation of breaking that streak makes his nerves jangle, makes the pit of his stomach warm and tight. 

Brian breathes in, quick, when he pulls down Pat's jeans, taking his boxers with them, and Pat's dick springs free and slaps against his stomach. "Fuckin'... hi. Hello," Brian croons, smiling, covering it with his hand and rubbing lightly with his fingers.

Brian runs his fingertips up and down Pat's dick, just firm enough to keep from tickling. It's not that he's… cautious, really. When Pat looks at his face, it's the picture of concentration, not hesitation. Brian's got the tip of his tongue in his teeth as he maps out Pat under his hand, gradually applying more pressure, rubbing, pinching; he even scratches, both hands against Pat's groin and carding through his unkempt pubic hair, even down the tops of his hairy thighs. It feels… it feels surprisingly good, to be the object of such playful attention. And it is playful, in a sense: the same exploratory nature of Brian's kisses, only mapped out across a larger area.

He keeps expecting Brian to crank it up, to capture some of that frantic energy from the doorway, but now that he's got Pat in hand he doesn't seem at all inclined to rush. Pat pulls a pillow over and tucks his arm behind his head, to watch. "Take your time," he murmurs, as if he doesn't know full well he's already made himself the fly to Brian's spider.

Brian smiles, and runs his whole hand up Pat's length and gives him a squeeze. Pat's hips jerk again, his thighs clenching under the weight of Brian on top. Brian replies, "You in a hurry, Pat Gill?"

"Not at all," Pat sighs, as Brian starts finally stroking his dick more than a few times in a row. It's the right thing to say, though, because Brian rewards his cooperation by leaning in, stretching his long body out over Pat's and bringing their mouths together again to kiss, deep and lazy, as Brian's hand moves between their bodies.

He tries to reach down to undo Brian's pants, but Brian knocks his hand aside and pins it to the bed—just lightly, but so self-assured that it makes Pat's stomach do a fun little lurch, an unexpected but fantasy-familiar _oh, like this, then_ recognition. "Lemme focus on you," Brian says, and nips at his lower lip. He brings his free hand back up to brace beside Pat's head, and Pat… well. Pat does what he's told.

Pat would be fine with this all night. Really, honestly; it's just such a goddamn pleasure to feel someone's skin on his again. Everywhere they touch, its like he can _feel_ the goosebumps rise up, like every part of him wants to touch Brian as long as possible. Pat can hear himself making noise—can hear the noises pulled out of him by Brian's delicate hand—and Brian's answering whine, too, as he grinds down on Pat's thigh.

God, he'd missed kissing. It sounds sad even to think it, but Pat's known all the flavours of sad; he'd take this bittersweet ache over the desolate hunger of not knowing what he'd been missing at all. He cups Brian's face slowly, in case Brian wants him to stop again, but when Brian hums in appreciation he curls his fingers around to nest in the short hair at the base of Brian's skull, cradling his head as he kisses with all the gratefulness he can convey.

Brian's observant; he must know. He must sense that Pat's come at this all sideways for a hookup. Pat doesn't have a lot of hookups under his belt—his game's not that strong, honestly—but he's not supposed to feel like this, he knows. Not like he wants to pour all this affection into Brian and drink it back; not like he wants to be held like a precious thing, to touch every part of Brian like a lover. You only get one first time with someone, whether after a long courtship or just because they're your new coworker and they're beautiful and they cocked their head at you and said they wanted to take you to bed.

Brian's keen eye must have sussed it out of him, because he spends forever—god, it feels like _ages_ —just jerking Pat off, and kissing him, breaking only to murmur about how good Pat feels in his hand, how gorgeous and strong his body is. It's not quite like being a teenager again, but Pat still enjoys the faint echoes of that feeling, of discovering and being discovered. It doesn't really get him _there_ , but that's not the point, maybe, because it still wrings out such sweet pleasures from him that Pat isn't in the same _vicinity_ as caring.

Eventually though… he's not capable of getting any _harder_ , that's for sure, and when Brian pulls back to watch his hand move on Pat's cock, its shiny-wet with pre-come. He laughs a little, delighted, as he squeezes on the upstroke, coaxing out a fresh burble of liquid that drips down his hand as Pat shivers and curses. Brian switches hands, and licks up the mess from across his knuckles before leaning in to kiss Pat again, sharing the salty taste.

Brian kisses down his jaw, skating over the bruises he left on Pat's neck and down his chest; he bites lightly at the slight rise of his pecs, down his abs, shuffling farther and farther back on the bed until he can push Pat's legs up and to the side. Even bracketed by Pat's legs, on his knees, he still looks completely in control. Making sure he's got Pat's eye, he tilts his head and lays a series of messy, open kisses up the side of him, until he can swirl his tongue around the tip and suck the underside, the sensitive place right under the head of Pat's dick.

"God, Brian, please—" he sighs, and Brian smiles; he can feel the flats of Brian's teeth slide against his skin.

He doesn't have to beg. Brian presses one more messy kiss to him before dragging his tongue up, flicking across the seam, and taking Pat in his mouth. He does it slow, so slow, keeping eye contact with Pat the whole time. It's—fuck, Brian sure fucking knows what he's doing, god, because even under the onslaught of his perfectly hot mouth Pat can still feel the pressure of Brian's tongue on him, sucking and licking even as he lowers his head.

He doesn't stop until Pat's, just, a _good_ ways in—Pat's not _short_ , is all—and then goes a little more for good measure, the little overachiever. His eyes close as he bobs his head a few times, and the clench of his throat around Pat is just, god, it's just… it bowls Pat over, honestly, with how good he feels, how it obliviates his words right out of his brain when Brian comes back up, still slow, every maddening inch of the slide of his lips up Pat's full length. Brian braces Pat with his hand as he comes off with a theatrical _pop_ and a big gulp of air.

"Holy— _fuck_ , Brian," Pat groans, and Brian laughs before taking the head of Pat's dick again in a filthy, loose-lipped kiss. It's all Pat can do to keep his body relatively still, and when he has the wherewithal to lift his head, Brian's watching him. Pat can _see_ the smile in his eyes, the insolent beauty, as Brian fucking _winks_ before starting another slow descent.

Pat recants his previous opinion that he'd have been happy with kissing and touching all night, because Brian's mouth is _sin_ : hot, and enthusiastic, and delicate, completely overwhelming in a way that's gonna get embarrassing alarmingly fast. Brian's other hand scratches lightly down his thigh—a counterpoint to the soft wet of his mouth, like salt bringing out sweet—and up his side, open-palm spread over ribs. Pat laces their fingers together over his sternum, and holds on while Brian picks at the locks of his body.

He's at the point where he can't stop his legs from shaking before Brian deigns to come up again, pushing himself up to kneel with Pat's legs splayed over his thighs. Pat makes a mournful noise, cut off when Brian circles him with his hand and strokes, languidly.

"Did you bring the bag in?" Brian asks. His voice sounds bruised, thick.

Pat nods and gestures loosely off the edge of the bed. Brian full-body bends over off the bed, perfectly balanced, head and shoulders disappearing for a moment as he rustles around on Pat's messy floor in the nearly-darkness.

Brian tosses the box of condoms up to Pat as he rises, and they both unceremoniously unpackage condoms and lube respectively. Brian's done first, his hands not as fuck-drunk and fumbling as Pat's, and tosses the box over his shoulder with a quiet _whoop!_ He has to relieve Pat, slitting the packaging on the box of condoms with his painted thumbnail and pulling out a long chain of foil packets.

"This is seriously optimistic, Pat," he laughs, pulling the chain out to the length of his arm before it flops out and hits Pat in the thigh.

"Says you," Pat murmurs, gently taking the condoms and putting them on the bed for later. "Maybe I'm a fucking machine, Brian, I gotta buy in bulk."

Brian huffs and leans forward, palms on Pat's chest, and looks down his nose at him. The tilt of his smile somehow manages to convey both _yeah, right_ and _show me_ at the same time. Slowly, he drags his fingertips down Pat's sides until he's sitting back again, pushing Pat's legs to the sides. Pat must look as out of his comfort zone as he feels, because Brian gives him a reassuring squeeze before kissing the inside of Pat's knee, reaching over to tear a condom off the roll.

He rips into the packet with his teeth and rolls it over his fingers, adds lube. He hikes Pat's knee up over one shoulder, which lifts Pat's hips, and runs his lips up the hairy inside of Pat's thigh. "You _gooood_?" he asks, "Comfy?"

Pat nods, and Brian's eyes crinkle as he smiles, as if Pat's given him a present instead of just spread his damn legs. Brian's hand dips into the shadow between their bodies and his fingers—god, his fingers—are cold and a little alien from the feel of the condom, but quickly warmed as he runs his fingertips over the sensitive skin around Pat's hole. A lump forms in Pat's throat; he swallows.

Pat's flagged a little, in anticipation, which makes it all the more obvious when his cock jerks like an eager puppy when Brian tentatively presses in with his fingers, slowly and purposefully breaching Pat's body. Pat breathes out heavy through his nose and throws his head back at the rush of intense intimacy of it, of someone—fuck—someone inside of you, for the first time. He can feel his body resist at first, unremembering, before letting Brian in.

Brian groans a little under his breath as his fingers slip in further, until his knuckles are resting against Pat. It feels—it feels good, in that overwhelming way, an initial disbelieving rush that wanes as Brian crooks his fingers inside of Pat, gently rubbing and pushing as Pat takes a few more centering breaths. Every small movement feels huge inside of him, sending tendrils of heat blossoming out from the point where they connect, like tiny searching vines.

"Still good?" Brian asks. His head rests on Pat's knee, the light from Pat's window illuminating his rapt expression in cool blue, the glitter still smeared all across his cheekbones. Pat just nods again, managing a faint _mmhmm_. The feeling is too—it's too intense to shatter by trying to form words. "Can you turn on your lamp?" Brian asks. 

Pat casts around with his hand until he finds the cord of his lamp, follows it until he can flick it on. Warm light fills the room. "Thanks," Brian says, as he starts working his fingers out and back in. "I wanted to see your face."

Pat groans and throws his arm over his eyes, feeling his face heat up against the crook of his elbow. Brian just laughs, and shifts—and then Pat _really_ gasps, jerking as the heat of Brian's mouth surrounds him again. "Hn, _god_ ," he moans, rubbing his heels against the mattress as his legs tense and relax.

Of course Brian is good at this. There's no way Pat would have bet against the man's singular sense of focus. He's done with finesse, it feels, instead focusing on curling his fingers inside Pat until he finds the angle that makes Pat's back arch, and his hands fly to Brian's head to tangle in his hair just for the need to _hold on_ to something. It's so smooth between his fingers, just another sense to add to the burning wreckage of how much there is to process at once, between Brian's fingers, and his mouth, and the heat of his other hand under Pat's knee, pushing it, pinning it down.

When he really nails it, Brian is merciless; Pat loses track of the exact movements of Brian's fingers, of _time_ , as the sensations pile on top of each other. He pants, and swears, and feels his feet tangle in the blankets of his unmade bed as Brian unravels him, everything in his core going tight and heavy with wave upon wave of pleasure.

"Hah, fuck, Brian, hold on," Pat gasps, after a while, tapping him on the head even as every primitive urge would rather he grab on and fuck himself to completion.

Brian slows his fingers, just stroking deep inside of Pat. "How many times can you usually come?" he asks, like that's a normal question to ask, and doesn't make Pat's stomach sink in thrilled agony.

" _Once_ , you _maniac_ ," Pat bites out, and then groans as Brian does— _something_ with his fingers: deeper, or harder, or faster, or some combination of the three, that makes his whole lower body throb, that heat and tension spiraling through his core. He can feel his dick _drip_ , spitting up pre-come as Brian wrings it out of him. "Oh—Brian—I'm gonna punch that ticket real fucking soon though," he manages.

Even with his eyes screwed closed, Pat can _hear_ the satisfied smile on Brian's face as he laughs. In a flurry of motion that still doesn't uncouple his hand from where they're joined, Brian crawls up to press a breathless kiss to the corner of Pat's open lips. Pat turns his head, kissing Brian properly, letting Brian's tongue delve into his mouth as his hand keeps moving, pressing, stoking the embers of that overwhelming feeling.

"Do you… can I… you…" Pat tries, a few times, to form an actual sentence, but words have fled. He slides his hand up Brian's thigh—he's still wearing pants!—to cup Brian's dick, and Brian exhales through his nose with a little whine.

"You think _you're_ gonna come fast," Brian jokes.

Pat reaches down and unbuttons Brian's pants, and somehow manages to push them down around the jumbled splay of legs and arms shared between the two of them. Brian laughs as Pat uses his foot to push them down the rest of the way, pulling his feet from the legs before they both become hopelessly tangled.

Brian finally slips his hand free, peeling off the condom and flicking it over the side of the bed before shoving down his underwear and kicking them away. Finally, _finally_ naked together, Pat reaches between them and takes Brian's cock in his hand. It's… it's just the perfect little cock, honestly, and Pat doesn't think it's the sex-brain talking. He gives it a few strokes—Brian's eyes slip closed as he exhales, sharp—before instead grabbing him around the hips and pulling him up the bed. Brian sounds surprised but comes readily, straddling Pat's chest with envious flexibility. 

"Remember what I literally _just said_ about coming qui—oh, oh, fuck—" Brian gasps as Pat takes him in his mouth, the salt-bitter taste blooming on his tongue. Brian's hands come down, one to clench the pillow under Pat, the other to cradle Pat's head. Pat shoots him a look, knowing entirely what the angle does to anyone's face, and Brian whines again, urgently. "Seriously, Pat, I can come again, but not that quick, and I really—Jesus—I really wanna fuck you, like, now, please, I don't wanna wait."

Brian scurries back as Pat shifts, kicking the bunched-up blankets off the foot of the bed, into his streaming rig. "Like this?" Pat asks.

"Whatever you want, bay-bee," Brian replies, sing-song and distracted by tearing into a second condom.

There's a moment, when Brian is between Pat's legs, where the surreality of the night strikes Pat right in the chest; Brian's glitter's smeared _everywhere_ , all over himself and down Pat's chest and thighs, reminding Pat that less than two hours ago he'd been nursing a beer and chastizing himself for fantasizing about the beautiful man now kneeling before him. Surreal, but not frightening—despite the short runway, he just… he just knows. It's gonna be fine. Brian's a good egg.

Brian flashes him a quick smile as he hikes one of Pat's legs up over his elbow, leaning up and in to bring them into alignment. "Yeah?" he breathes, and Pat nods, _yeah_.

It's always harder, for Pat, this part: he feels the blunt head of Brian's cock breach his body easily, just the faint and expected prickle-burn of stretching that's good and intense at the same time. Fingers are fingers, though, and a cock is something else entirely; Pat closes his eyes and breathes out, slow, as his body haltingly reconfigures itself around the glacial slide of Brian's cock in him.

Brian's hand alights on his jaw, thumb against the corner of his mouth. "Good?"

Pat lays his hand over Brian's, the other going between their bodies to press fingertips to Brian's belly. "Gimme a sec," Pat says, and Brian stops entirely. "Let me…"

With what leverage he has, Pat pushes himself up and then, gently, back down, the relief of pressure convincing his muscles to let Brian in. Brian lets out a soft moan as he slides unobstructed the rest of the way in, until his hipbones are flush against Pat; Pat must make the same noise, but it's obliterated in the incomparable feeling of being _full_ , of someone else being so inside of you that you may as well be one.

Brian's breathing is shaky as he leans in and kisses Pat; the fervent, grateful mess of him as he manages to keep still. Pat cups his head and they kiss for a while, long enough that the burn in Pat's gut transmutes into something more familiar, more pressing, insistent. "Yeah, yeah, come on," he urges.

Brian uncaps the lube and drizzles more where they're joined, and his second thrust in is easy and wet, sliding home in a way that makes Pat groan and curse with how fucking good it is to have this again, this complete surrender to what someone else's body can do to yours. He feels pinned, between Brian's arm wrapped around his bent thigh, holding him up, and Brian's hand on his shoulder, holding him down, and Brian fucking into him, catching where he's suspended between those two points.

It's—okay, look, fucking is _always_ good, for Pat; he's got simple needs as a man, and they're easy to hit. He's fucked drunk, and tired, and personally disinterested, and it's still _fine_ , because even when everything's fucked up, there's his good friend Orgasm ready to scour out any misgivings. This, though, fuck: the creep of that heat up his spine, the way his body tightens and burns with it, the wave of sweat that beads all over him as need overwhelms him; it's fucking _good_ , Brian is good, at this and seemingly everything else.

Brian's got a rhythm going, not comically hard but certainly not going easy on him, now that Pat's let go. The steady beat of it drives the breath from Pat, drives the words from him, leaving only the omnipresent moaning exhale that shakes out of him, the gasp and unvoiced shout when Brian fucks him _just right_.

They climb together at something like the same speed, because Pat's approaching the inevitable when Brian starts to stutter in his movements. "That's—that's it for me," he says, apologetic, but Pat just grabs him by the back of his neck and mashes their mouths together, inelegant, swallowing each other's breath. Pat gets one hand between them and jerks himself, hard and quick, chasing it, as Brian thrusts a few more times until he stills with a gasp that sounds like it comes up from his toes.

"Fuck, fuck, come on," Pat swears. Brian doesn't waste any time in replacing his cock with his fingers, jamming them up inside Pat to where he needs it, needs that merciless inexact pressure to bear down on to usher himself over the threshold. He comes with a shout, spurting over his hand and up his chest, breathing through his teeth as it crashes over him like a wall of noise that leaves his ears ringing.

He's surprised once more by Brian's mouth on him, gentle but insistent, sucking the last of Pat's spend as it dribbles from him. It's just this side of too much, until it topples over into _actually_ too much, and Pat pushes him off with an incredulous laugh. Brian's eyes are sparkling as he pulls himself up to lay on top of Pat, straight-armed and waiting for Pat to pull him down and kiss his smiling mouth.

They kiss, lazily. Pat's heart's gonna beat out of his damn chest, at first, but gradually everything fades from him but the pleasant, bone-heavy exhaustion of release. Brian's body gets heavier too, his arms wrapping around Pat as they turn so they can both lie on their sides and keep kissing even as sleep tugs at them both.

Eventually, Brian pulls away. He shoves his hair out of his face and rolls over onto his back, exhaling noisily. "M'gonna go wash up, and…" he pauses, squinting at Pat's window overhead. "Did you know… it's actually snowing?"

Pat lifts himself up on his elbow to check. "Huh," he remarks. His shittily-insulated windowpane is fogged up around the edges from the sheer heat of the room, but sure enough, there's little snowflakes dancing in the beam of the streetlamp outside.

Brian sighs. "Okay, I'm gonna deal with that when I'm not wearing a used condom," he says, lightly, and rolls off the bed to his feet. He's still—hah—he's still wearing his socks. They're argyle green.

"Out and to the right," Pat says, and Brian gives him a single fingergun as he leaves.

Pat gives himself a few moments to lie still, his hand on his chest, before sitting up to shake out the lassitude that makes him want to just pull the covers up, spunk and all. He pulls a dirty shirt off the floor and wipes himself down, then chucks it into the hamper.

Brian's gone longer than Pat would expect, after the water stops running in the bathroom. Not by much; just a subtle discrepancy he can't describe but feels, anyway. He almost wonders if Brian somehow got lost in his tiny two-bedroom apartment before Brian returns, carrying his shoes and shirt.

He sits down on the bed beside Pat and looks, for all the world, like he's about to put his goddamn shirt back on. "...the fuck are you doing?" Pat asks, honestly confused.

Brian pauses. "Getting dressed," he replies, after a pregnant silence.

"The hell you are," Pat says, feeling his eyebrows come together. "It's like one in the morning, and it's snowing."

Brian smiles, shrugging. "It's fine. Subway runs all night, or I'll call a Lyft or something. Don't worry about it."

"The hell I _won't_ ," Pat insists, and takes Brian's wrist to keep him from putting it through his shirtsleeve. He hates the flicker of fear that crosses Brian's expression before smoothing into something more neutral. "Stay," Pat says. "Please?"

Brian looks doubtful, so Pat pulls out the big guns: he swings his leg up behind Brian, and coaxes him into a searching kiss. He can practically feel Brian melt in his arms, dropping his shirt to wrap his arms around Pat in turn. Pat tilts them backwards, pulling Brian until they're lying down, skin on skin, until the chill on Brian fades and everything is warm and slow again.

"Stay?" Pat affirms, and this time Brian nods.

They fall asleep like that, wrapped up in each other, as the snow piles up on the windowsill outside.

—

_"Hey, I'm Pat," he said, extending his hand out to the new guy, who shook it enthusiastically. He had a good grip; Pat's was probably not the first hand he'd shook today._

_"I know," the new guy said. "I'm kind of a fan. Sorry, I hope that's not weird."_

_What could Pat do, but smile and duck his head. "No, it's fine," he said. "It's good, actually. I'm sure I'll be a fan of yours in a few months."_

_The new guy laughed: an earnest, musical sound. Pat was charmed, immediately. "Gosh, I hope so. I can't wait to work with you."_

_"We should move on," Tara reminded them both, and that was that. The new guy, Brian David Gilbert, and nothing but the future stretching out ahead of him. Pat envied him._

—

Pat wakes up chilled, to the smell of coffee. He casts around for his blanket and pulls it up over himself before memory seeps into his sleep-deprived brain and makes his eyes shoot open. Holy shit, _Brian_. He sits up and looks around; Brian's shoes are still on his floor.

As if on cue, Brian nudges the bedroom door open with his foot and comes in, carrying two steaming mugs. He puts one down on the nightstand for Pat—black, two sugars, if he can trust Brian's already memorized how he makes his coffee at work—and sits down in the space made by Pat's body on the bed.

Brian cradles his mug to his naked chest. "You have a roommate," he says, reproachfully.

"Oh," Pat laughs, pushing his bedhead out of his eyes. "Yeah, Quinn. Sorry."

"He gave me a _high five_ ," Brian pouts, drumming his fingers against his mug. "I would have worn nicer underwear."

Pat reaches out and runs his finger along the inside of Brian's briefs. They're printed with a repeating Mario and Yoshi pattern, something he didn't notice in the chaos of last night. "I like 'em," he says.

Brian laughs and leans in to kiss Pat again, carefully transferring his mug to beside Pat's on the nightstand when Pat deepens it. He feels, just… warm, and content. Languid. Like there's nowhere else he wants to be but here, in the nest of his blankets, with a Brian that tastes like coffee and smells like sleep while the city rests outside under a blanket of snow.

Some of that must get through to Brian, because he doesn't pull away; he just turns so that he's up on one elbow and curled up in the space Pat's left for him, their legs tangled together as they kiss, and kiss, and kiss, not a hurry in the world.

A thread of intention curls within Pat, and he slides his hand down Brian's ribcage until he snags Brian's briefs and tugs them down.

"Again?" Brian murmurs, more of a sound than a word against Pat's lips.

They don't talk much, after that. Brian rolls him over so they're back-to-chest, opens him up with gentle fingers. It doesn't take long, not after last night. Pat's still pliable from the good care taken of him. Brian wraps him in his arms, presses kisses to his shoulderblades as he slides in, easy as anyone could please.

It's quiet, and slow—companionable, which is a word Pat'd never thought to apply to sex, but fits perfectly. He touches himself without any real intent as Brian rocks into him, and still manages to get there anyway, sighing as he comes with no regard as to where it lands. Brian takes a little longer, but with the slow pace it doesn't bother Pat at all; he just reaches back and cards his fingers through Brian's hair until Brian tenses and breathes out against Pat's neck, hot and wet, and goes still.

For the longest time, it's just the sound of their breathing intermingling in the muffled snow-silence of Pat's room. "Jeez," Brian says, finally, shifting to take off the condom before stretching his arms around Pat like a cat.

"Mmm," Pat hums, grabbing Brian's hand and bringing it to his mouth to kiss. He laces their fingers and pulls Brian's arm around him again. He could sleep. He wants to sleep, and to wake up with Brian still warm at his back.

Brian's breathing evens out, slow and regular against the back of his neck. His fingers twitch sleepily in Pat's hands. Pat holds on just a moment longer, sparing a single thought for the coffee cooling on the nightstand, before his eyes grow too heavy and it's simply too much effort to resist.

—

Brian's still there when he wakes up again, an unknowable time later. Pat can hear the faint tapping of him typing on his phone.

"Everything 'kay?" he slurs, wiping the sleep from his eyes.

Brian clicks his phone off and reaches away to put it on the nightstand. "Mmhmm. Just telling my sister where I ended up. It's late."

Pat rolls over to face Brian. "S'gonna ask what time it is, but I don't care," he mumbles.

Brian laughs quietly as he pushes Pat's hair behind his ear again. "You should. It's after noon."

"Shit, really?" Pat winces. "Alright, that is pretty late. Hope you didn't have anywhere to be."

Brian shrugs. "No, not really. You can have me the rest of the day, pretty much."

Pat blinks away the last bit of sleep to see Brian clearly: the winter sun filtering through his fogged window gives everything a perfect, ethereal glow, catching on last night's glitter and this morning's dark circles, the look on Brian's face that's both fond and a little uneasy. Pat pulls his hand out from under the covers and strokes his thumb over Brian's cheek. Brian turns his head to kiss the middle of his palm.

"How about longer than today," Pat says, after a while. Brian's eyes widen. "How about for a while."

The gobsmacked expression on Brian's face melts into a smirk. "Depends," he says, thoughtfully slow. "What was your name, again?"

The look on Pat's face must be gold, because Brian cracks before Pat can even respond. " _Psyche_ , Pat Gill," he laughs, leaning in to lay a flurry of kisses all over Pat's face. "I'm here to stay."

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! A comment is the nicest thing you could possibly give me, if you're so inclined!


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